Lauren Haney: Curse of Silence

Mennufer, where he had begun to rebuild an army that had languished from years of royal neglect.

“What difference would it make? You know how she is when she sets her heart on a goal.” Thuty took a deep drink of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Amon ked’s well into his mission. He should reach Buhen in about a week.”

“What can we do?” Bak asked in a grim voice.

“I plan to go upriver with the inspection party.” Thuty formed a calculating smile. “I’ll tell him how important the army is to this land and its people, and how important they are to us. How they thrive because we’re here to protect them as well as the gold and ebony and precious stones so desired by the royal house. I’ll…” He caught himself, gave a cynical snort. “I want each of you to assign a man to go with me. Both should be trustworthy and dependable, sergeants who can stand up for themselves should the need arise and not let a flock of self-important scribes browbeat them into submission.”

“Sergeant Pashenuro,” Bak said. “Other than Imsiba, he’s the best Medjay I have.”

Nebwa scratched his head, thinking. “Sergeant Dedu.

He’s been training new recruits and can use a break.”

“I know them both and approve.” Thuty threw an an noyed glance at the courtyard, beyond which could be heard the loud whispers of two women. “I’ve sent a courier up the Belly of Stones, warning the fortress commanders of Amonked’s mission. I hated to give them the bad news so soon, but thought they should be prepared.”

“Better now than after they hear the rumor going round,”

Bak said, and went on to explain, adding for good measure

Seshu’s tale of Hor-pen-Deshret’s return.

Thuty was irritated, yet relieved his message had gone out when it had. The anger and resentment the courier would leave in his wake would in no way equal the re sentment a rumor would rouse. As for Hor-pen-Deshret,

Thuty paid small heed. He shared Bak’s feeling: with po tential disaster so near at hand, the news of one tribesman’s return seemed of small import.

“You’ll need more than two sergeants to guard Amon ked’s back,” Nebwa said, stretching his legs in front of him and wiggling his filthy toes. “Maybe I’d better send along a company of spearmen.”

Thuty scowled at a jest too close to the truth.

“How long will he remain in Buhen,” Bak asked, “and what kind of protection will he need?”

“Not for long, I hope.” Thuty tapped the arm of his chair, thinking. “While he’s here, we’ll quarter him and his party in the house Lieutenant Neferperet occupied before he and his family returned to Kemet. It’s close enough to this res idence that he can’t complain and far enough away that they’ll not be underfoot.”

“The building’s run-down,” Nebwa said.

Thuty waved his hand, dismissing the objection. “I’ll have it repaired, repainted, and refurnished. That should suffice. They can’t expect the same luxury they have in the capital.”

“Protection?” Bak reminded him.

“I want that house well-guarded, Lieutenant. By Med jays, not soldiers whose futures might lay in Amonked’s hands.” Thuty’s voice turned as hard as granite. “I don’t want him harmed while he’s here by someone angered at his mission. Nor do I want any of his minions in trouble or causing trouble.”

“Yes, sir.” A new thought intruded. “Has he been told the river’s too low to sail south beyond Kor? That he’ll have to travel by donkey caravan between Kor and Semna?”

The old fortification of Kor was an hour’s march upriver from Buhen. Located at the mouth of the Belly of Stones, it was used as a staging post, where trade goods were trans ferred from ships to donkey caravans for the long journey south around the rapids, and from donkeys to ships after the return trip.

“If he hasn’t heard it from the men who sail these waters, the viceroy will see he knows.” A burst of laughter, quickly stifled, drew Thuty’s eyes toward the door. “He’ll need a caravan master, troop captain. A man you’d trust with your life. As much as we dislike what he’s come to do, his jour ney must go well, giving him no reason for complaint.”

“Seshu,” Nebwa said without hesitation. He glanced to ward the door and the lengthening shadows visible in the courtyard. “He’s in Buhen now. Shall I go get him, sir?”

“Yes, and quickly.” Thuty’s voice turned as dry as a field long untouched by floodwaters. “With luck, I can coerce him into taking on Amonked’s caravan.”

“I fed that boy Hori,” Nofery grumbled. “Now I suppose you’ll want me to fill your belly, too.”

“A jar of beer will do.” Bak followed the obese old woman out to the courtyard, where a slender dusky-skinned youth was lighting a torch to stave off the dark of night. “I ate at the barracks with my Medjays. Stewed fish-as usual.”

“You heard him, Amonaya,” she said to the boy. “Bring some beer, then get out your writing implements. Hori awaits you.”

The youth made a face behind her back, letting Bak know he did not appreciate the lessons the police scribe had agreed to give him. Lessons Nofery had insisted he take so he could, in the future, help her run her place of business, the largest house of pleasure in Buhen.

A loud curse drew Bak’s eyes to an open doorway and the good-sized front room of the house. Inside, four men sat on the floor playing knucklebones, while a dozen more and two scantily clad young women stood in clusters around the room, beer jars in hand, talking in low, agitated voices. Wagers were made, the bones clattered across the floor, the winner raised his hands high and shouted his plea sure. Bak feared for his safety. Tempers had shortened as word of Amonked’s mission spread.

Nofery shuffled across the court to an armless wooden chair positioned so she could see into the front room and her customers could see her. With a self-satisfied smile, she settled herself like royalty on the thick pillows padding the seat. The chair, which she had had shipped all the way from

Waset, was new, a symbol of her prosperity.

Turning away to hide a fond smile, Bak sat on a mud brick bench built against the wall. The cool breeze he had first noticed while bathing in the river at sunset had stiff ened, rattling the dry palm fronds atop the lean-to that cov ered half the courtyard and making the leaves of a potted sycamore dance and rustle. A half-dozen large jars leaning against the rear wall gave off a strong odor of beer.

“The commandant’s expecting a lofty visitor. Have you heard?”

“Who hasn’t? Word spread through Buhen like chaff in the wind.” She shifted her massive buttocks, grimaced. “A nobleman’s coming to the Belly of Stones, they say, to conduct an inspection. To write the fortresses all off as useless, and us with them.”

The tale had not yet lost touch with reality, Bak noted, but within a few days it would be exaggerated beyond rec ognition. By the time the inspection party arrived, Amon ked would be the most despised man on the frontier. “You long ago dwelt in the capital, old woman. Did you know the one who’s coming, this storekeeper of Amon?”

A young, almost grown lion padded out of the shadows to lay at her feet. As she reached down to scratch the crea ture’s neck, Bak glimpsed a familiar look of calculation on her face. “If I’m to tell you anything of value, I must know his name.”

“You haven’t heard?” Bak asked, with exaggerated amazement. “What am I to do? Seek out a new spy, one whose business isn’t so prosperous it distracts her from walking through this city, eyes and ears wide open?”

She clasped her hands before her breast and raised her eyes to the stars. “How many times have I prayed to the gods to free me from your attentions?” Her voice was as exaggerated as his had been.